


Diary of A Holiday Tutor

by Lilliburlero



Category: Provincial Lady - E. M. Delafield
Genre: Awkward Boners, F/M, Gen, POV switch, Sexual Fantasy, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:40:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Casabianca has immortal longings in him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diary of A Holiday Tutor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fan_flashworks challenge 'Suitcase.'

_August 1st_ : To Church & Gargoyle, scholastic agents. Maniacally cynical man in horn-rims asks my reason for leaving last situation. Resolved on honesty, I tell him, at which he assures me that Officially I Have Not Told Him. He picks up telephone and enquires of a Mr Samson if they have anything suitable for Incompatibilities in Pedagogical Philosophy, adds with a small frown, Male, and after a pause and a grimace of hideous confidentiality in my direction clarifies, No, Thank God, The Bursar’s Wife. I am given the choice of: 1) rectory in Swallow, widowed father of four children (3 m, 12, 10 and 9 y.o. 1 f, 14 y.o.) boys requiring intensive tuition to Catch Up Following Measles or 2) Devon, land agent to Lady Boxe, two children (1, m, 11 y.o.; 1 f, 7 y.o.), must be prepared to accompany family to Brittany, swimmer and French-speaker preferred. Though French a trifle rusty, I plump sybaritically for swimming and Brittany over bleak Lincolnshire wolds and remedial Algebra.

 _August 4th_ : Travel to Salisbury to be interviewed by mother of potential pupils. Terrific inconvenience of reaching this equidistant rendezvous predisposes me to refuse position at all costs, but am aware this is irrational. 

Resolutions fade on sight of Mrs D—, who is in her early forties, handsome with huge brown heavy-lidded eyes, and are forgotten entirely after half an hour’s conversation, during which she neither patronises me as species of upper servant nor tries to persuade me of the surpassing intelligence and sensitivity of her offspring. Charmed by her self-deprecating humour, find myself urgently hoping she will make offer there and then. However she merely and rather airily promises to Write, but does at least offer expenses, which fund large, insipid tea in the train. Am ploughing through vast, arid scone when thought occurs that employment in close proximity to captivating, witty and understimulated wife of former colonel has in the past proved inadvisable. Dismiss this as unworthy of own hard-won powers of continence. Roused from pleasing romantic reverie at Biggleswade by the muttered commentary of an urn-shaped lady in bilious crepe upon the unchivalry of Hale Young Men who Spread Themselves Out Across the front-facing seats.

 _August 7th_ : Arrive at the D—s and am admitted by an emphatically harassed maid to the usual disorder of a provincial entrance hall, odd galoshes, autumn bulbs, at least twice as many tennis racquets as inmates. Meet my charges, who are typical impervious, utterly mindless little English children, the girl indiscriminately affectionate. I express admiration for yellow-and-white cat whose resemblance to Clean-Limbed American Lady Tennis Star for the moment escapes me and we play tip-and-run until tea. Am then introduced to the husband, who is taciturn but has a humorous face. ~~Not the sort to make an unseemly fuss over a little hair-stroking and playful chastisement.~~

 _August 8th_ : Embarrassing incident while helping Mrs D—, (who in the course of operations suggests first name terms, blissful bliss) to pack the boy’s suitcase. Stuffed with redundant linen, it fails to shut. I offer to sit on it, whereupon, murmuring softly about the hygienic deficiencies of French trains (? but she is lovelier than ever when mysterious) she leaves the room. Since she clearly intends to return within a few minutes, I maintain my position atop the case. Ten minutes pass swiftly in recollection of her statuesque posterior aspect. After a quarter of an hour I consider that perhaps she has been waylaid by one of the children or a departing maid, and decide to wait another five minutes before going to look for her. After twenty-five minutes reflect that to abandon my post at this stage would be in some obscure fashion Dereliction of Duty, find pocket-edition of Dante in coat pocket (Mem.: replace with Montaigne for French Practice) and absorb myself in it for a few cantos. Have just concluded Earthly Paradise quite absurd, a sort of village fête Kitchen-and-Jumble of an Allegory, and Matilda a repulsively pert little madam, when She finally comes back in, dragging a wicker basket that seems to contain a very great quantity of green, white and red fabric (? domestic life continues an entire mystery to me) and with at least a dozen cakes of Pears Transparent Soap wedged between elbow and chin. & I feel at last I Understand.

‘You Ridiculous Boy,’ she exclaims in stern quarterdeck tones (Quasi ammiraglio che in poppa e in prora—) ‘what on earth do you mean by sitting there like—like—?’ 

Mean to stand up and explain myself, realise combination of usual somatic response to rebuke by striking middle-aged woman and thin flannels makes this impossible and freeze in amazement, whereupon my Beatrice at once drops both her superb demeanour and all the soap and apologises profusely. This, though a disappointment in an aesthetic sense, at least permits me to rise in a state of moderate decency. With trembling voice, I reply that It Is Nothing, She Must Have A Lot On Her Mind, and together we conquer the delinquent valise. Her perfume is Floris Stephanotis. I foresee a most diverting fortnight in Brittany.

~~O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD O GOD~~

**Author's Note:**

> Church &; Gargoyle, scholastic agents, find work for Paul Pennyfeather in Evelyn Waugh's _Decline and Fall_. Casabianca is reading cantos 29 and 30 of the _Purgatorio_ , and the line he quotes describes Beatrice as being like an admiral encouraging the fleet.


End file.
